


ornament

by Waywarder



Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dealing With Trauma, Sometimes Christmas Is Sad Yo, aziraphale is good with kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In which Aziraphale dares to hope. Poetry fromSong of the Open Roadby Walt Whitman.Part of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables holiday collection.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558789
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	ornament

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone. I just want to preface this with saying that things get a little heavy in this one, and I wanted you to know that up front. 
> 
> If you're struggling with anything, please know that you are not alone, and that you are so good, and it's wonderful that you are here. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you are having a wonderful day.

Aziraphale’s favorite Christmas tree ornament was the gold and silver snowflake that Crowley had given him to commemorate their first holiday together as godfathers. It was a simple little thing that had deserved a more dignified life than the one it had at first been doomed to on the Dowlings’ hideous, tacky Christmas tree. To Aziraphale, that little snowflake was hope. Crowley had pressed it into his hand, and Aziraphale had squirrelled the moment away alongside so many others. So many other glances that he hoped were meaningful, gestures that he hoped were significant, empty wine bottles and, yes, stolen snowflake ornaments that he hoped were telling.

These moments and looks and trinkets had for so long been cobbled together as the hopeful tapestry of Aziraphale’s heart. Once upon a time, he had taken to mentally cataloguing them at night when other creatures were sleeping. At night, when the world was at rest, Aziraphale had dared to hope.

Today he wanders the bookshop, a smile on his face. It is almost closing time, and Crowley is coming over soon. He hopes (knows) that Crowley will greet him with a big grin, and yell “Angel!” when he first sees him. He hopes (knows) that Crowley will go to dinner with him, holding his hand on the way out the door, during the car ride, and at the table for the duration of the meal. He hopes (knows) that Crowley will stay the night, falling asleep against Aziraphale’s chest.

The shop is nearly empty already. Suddenly, the sound of a choked sob pulls Aziraphale out of his reverie. He turns the corner. 

There is a child-- a teenager-- hunched down on the floor next to the Virginia Woolf. Aziraphale cannot see their face, but sees that their shoulders are shaking. Aziraphale’s own shoulders have shook enough throughout the course of his long life. He knows crying when he sees it.

Aziraphale does not generally care for customers. They really are the least pleasing aspect of owning a bookshop. But for the children who find their way into its aisles, Aziraphale feels nothing but love and grace. Because they tend to be the odd ducks who find A.Z. Fell And Co. They tend to be quiet and uncertain and nervous and sensitive, and Aziraphale knows that he would do anything to protect them.

Aziraphale crouches down next to the crying child. “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

They open their mouth to speak, but only more shuddering sobs manage to escape their body. Aziraphale knows this feeling, too. When the nightmares are too real and too close to the surface to name, as if naming them is what finally gives them the ultimate power to drag you under. 

Aziraphale sits on the floor beside the child, and stays put while they cry, hands covering their face. Aziraphale breathes out loud, through his mouth, doing what he can to remind the child to do the same. 

At last, the child looks up, and turns their tear-soaked face towards Aziraphale. “Mr. Fell, it’s just… I… have you ever felt totally hopeless?”

Aziraphale smiles. “I have.”

“What did you do?”

Aziraphale considers the question. This answer is important, he knows. “Only as much as I could, really. I found something that gives me a sense of purpose, here in the bookshop. I surrounded myself with what I found comforting and pleasant. I talk to my friend. I hold onto the things that remind me to hope. I seek out the words of others more thoughtful than myself.”

The child gives a wobbly nod. 

Aziraphale places a hand on the child’s shoulder. “There is no right answer, dear heart. I only know for certain that we cannot do this alone. Do you have anyone you can talk to?”

“I love my best friend,” they say, sniffling. “I trust her.”

“Of course. That’s wonderful,” Aziraphale says, kindly. “I do also think, when you’re ready, it might be for the best to tell your parents as well.”

Another nod. Aziraphale takes a deep breath. The child does the same. 

“Here,” Aziraphale says, suddenly. He stands up, and ducks away from the aisle. He isn’t long. He knows exactly what he’s looking for. When he returns, he holds two items in his hands. One:

“ _Leave of Grass,_ Walt Whitman,” Aziraphale passes the well-read, green book over to the child. “Pay particular attention to _Song of the Open Road._ ”

Two:

“Once, when I was feeling hopeless at Christmastime, _my_ best friend gave this to me.”

Aziraphale presses the gold and silver ornament into the child’s shaking hand. 

“Thank you, Mr. Fell.”

They stay there together a while longer. Aziraphale continues to breathe. At last, the child stands up, holding the book and the ornament to their chest, almost a little defiantly. It isn’t that hope springs from material objects. It’s that hope, when you really need it, can be found anywhere: in poetry, in friends, in kind strangers at bookshops, in Christmas ornaments passed down throughout the years.

The child begins their trek home as Crowley walks into the shop. He sees Aziraphale, and grins.

“Angel!” he cries, delightedly.

And, of course, they do go to dinner, and they do hold hands the whole time, and they do wind up back at the bookshop, Crowley’s head against Aziraphale’s chest as he drifts off to sleep.

And Aziraphale, once more, always, forever, dares to hope. Aziraphale prays to poets and friends and artists and lovers and lost souls and found souls and to anyone else who might be listening. It is Christmastime, yes, but the twinkling lights cannot solely extinguish the shadows of these long, dark days. It is Christmastime, and we are all in this together. 

_The earth never tires,  
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,  
Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,  
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell._

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and continues to breathe.


End file.
